


For a Life

by dreyrugr



Series: Made of Iron [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Civil War feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Gen, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, Infinity War Feels, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Avengers, Protective Hulk, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Thor (Marvel), Serious Injuries, Sick Character, Sick Tony, Team as Family, infected wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-02 21:56:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14554347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreyrugr/pseuds/dreyrugr
Summary: It’s all part of Strange’s plan. And it’d work, if only Tony wouldn’t be dying from an infected wound on an unknown planet on some faraway galaxy. So far from home. So far fromSteve.He never did get to use that stupid flip phone, did he?Or,Tony comes back from Titan, to Steve, to his family - but it will be a race against time to save him from becoming part of the wrong half of the universe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct continuation from the previous installment in the series, but I'm fairly sure one can still read this and understand it just fine. (Although, that might change in the future, as I continue to develop this.)

* * *

 

 

“We need to go.”

 

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot that we need to do, and it’s all for fucking _shit_.” He doesn’t mean the rawness to slip unbidden from his lips. The blood bubbles up in his throat, and a string of it slides down his chin before he has the sense of mind to swallow the copper back down.

 

He can’t quite swallow it down. It all comes back up, violently. It’s more blood than stomach acid at this point, mixing with the ashes that was Peter.

 

_God, what the hell have I done._

 

He coughs with the pain and curls tighter and tighter around the arm wrapped around his waist. It hurts like a sonuvabitch. Yet nothing can compare to the pain in his chest, the ache in his left arm as his breath tries to seize and stutter with every strained beat of his heart. _PeterPeterPeter_ , his heart palpitates; crying and mourning for a child that should have never been in this war.

 

“We need to go,” Blue Lady repeats. “ _Now_.”

 

Tony sucks in a breath. And another, beating down the pain. The desperation. “Fuck off,” he mutters. It’s all the strength he has left.

 

Scrotum Chin just decimated half of the universe in an insane quest to _save it_. Fuck, it’s Ultron all over again―on a cosmological scale. This has nothing on Sokovia. Sokovia is but a blip in the radar in the face of all the senseless _death_.

 

Tony has been fighting Thanos for six years. And for what? Half of all the _fucking universe is dead._

 

And he never got to look Steve Rogers in the eye one last time. To hear his voice. To feel his presence.

 

He’s stuck on a fucked up planet with a fucked up gravity and a fucked up moon―a moon that had tried its damned best to squash him like an itty-bitty bug.

 

So many things that went wrong.

 

Yet everything was according to plan.

 

Minus the whole stabby thing and the losing Peter thing.

 

“ _It had to be done._ ”

 

“ _Stark_ ,” Blue Lady snarls. Her impatience is edged and jaded. She snatches up one of Tony’s arms, forces him up to his feet. “We leave.  _Now._ ”

 

There’s only so much patience to be had in the face of his worst nightmare come to life. “Yeah? Where to, sweetheart? In case you haven’t taken a _fucking clue_ , we are _stranded here,_  on this _goddamn dead planet! And my kid just fucking died in my arms, pleading for his fucking life!_ ”

 

Nebula doesn’t speak, only regards him coolly. She watches him pant for breath he barely has, counts the _dripdripdrip_ of red blood seeping between the man’s fingers. “If Thanos had wanted you dead, you would be. He spared your life. _Use this_. Let him understand, to the very core of all that he is, that your life will be his grandest mistake.” She pauses and allows for her words to find purchase amongst the man’s panic. “Your son won’t be forever dead; don’t let his sacrifice be in vain.”

 

Tony stares into her obsidian eyes and prays to Thor with all he has that her words bleed true. “Okay,” he sighs. He blinks at the ground, suddenly hazy and numb. “Okay,” he repeats and doesn’t know why.

 

It’s the last thing he remembers.

 

* * *

 

“Whoa, whoa, guys, this is not me! This is not me! The suit is moving on its own. Why is it―where are we going? Friday?” Bruce struggles within the confines of the Hulkbuster, trying for naught to halt the suit’s movements.

 

“ _I have detected the Boss’ life signals, closing in fast._ ”

 

It’s all kinds of fucked up, Bruce thinks, that this is the moment the Hulk decides to show up. Violently. The suit, half-trashed as it was, turns into scrap metal in two seconds flat.

 

“ _Tin Man!_ ” he roars, a battle cry that resonates through the forests of Wakanda. The Hulk stumbles at first, tripping over an armored leg still wrapped around his flesh. He tears it apart with scrambling fingers. He stumbles again, free, and his fist pounds on the earth. He gets one foot under him and then the other.

 

Hulk’s green blur passes by the remaining Avengers.

 

“What the hell!” Rhodey starts; Steve is already racing after the Hulk’s steps.

 

Natasha takes a fortifying breath and takes off after the other men. “This just keeps getting better,” she mutters sarcastically.

 

Rhodey’s jets light up and take off.

 

Thor is already ahead of all of them. HIs lightning, bursting blue, crackles in the sky.

 

A hunk of metal, oval and metallic, is hurtling through the atmosphere. It burns like a shooting star, but the heat does nothing to impede the Hulk from bracing against the small ship. He roars, willing his momentum to slow down his cargo.

 

It is a useless endeavour―until Thor takes up the other end of the ship and grinds it, Hulk and all, to a stop mid-air.

 

Hulk huffs at Thor, curling his upper lip into a halfhearted snarl. “Hulk catch first.”

 

Thor doesn’t quite manage a smile. “And I caught you both.”

 

“Hulk strongest,” Hulk insits.

 

“I still caught you.”

 

Thor settles the ship Hulk-first and allows for the Hulk, in turn, to settle the ship onto the soil. The movement is surprisingly gentle―less a bull in a china shop and more a large dog that doesn’t know its size.

 

The Hulk grumbles a satisfied _hmm_ and steps back to wait for the ship’s doors to hiss open.

 

Steve’s thumping steps halt just to the side of the Hulk’s large frame. “We know they’re friendlies?” he asks to an unresponsive audience.

 

The War Machine lands with a metallic clank, Natasha some steps behind.

 

The Avengers stand in close ranks, waiting.

 

It’s not the grand entrance they were expecting.

 

A section of the hull parts in half and folds inward. And there, lying so very still on the ship’s floor, is Tony Stark himself.

 

“Son of a bitch,” Steve breathes.

 

In the next moment, they’re all rushing forward as the Hulk reaches into the ship and begins to slide, delicately, a hand under Tony’s torso.

 

“Hulk, _wait_ ―we don’t know how badly injured he is!” Rhodey interjects, yet it’s as if the Hulk is in a trance.

 

Hulk picks Tony up like a limp ragdoll, the latter’s body folding with the gentle movements. His head lolls, his neck loose, so Hulk runs a careful finger under the man’s head and accommodates it at the crook of his massive arm. He cradles Tony’s unconscious body like this, holding him close to his chest, and then runs the back of a knuckle softly over blood-crusted skin―Tony’s alive and breathing, the most beautiful thing the Hulk has seen since a time too long. His lips twist with displeasure.

 

“Tin Man warm,” he informs the group at large. They all blink at him blankly or, rather, at his charge, stunned beyond words. “Tin Man _warm_ ,” he growls, annoying at their lack of understanding. “Too hot. Burning.”

 

That finally gets them moving. Natasha is the first to step up, holding her arms up. “Hulk, let me see him.”

 

He shakes his head. “ _No_ ,” he snaps. “ _No!_ Hulk keep Tin Man safe. Tin Man return to Hulk.”

 

Natasha is undeterred. “That’s okay, Big Guy. You can keep him safe; I just want to see him. I haven’t seen Tin Man in a long time.”

 

It’s the wrong thing to say. Hulk turns the arm holding Tony close away and leans forward, looming his face close to Natasha’s. She doesn’t flinch, but he can smell the fear off of her. He pokes her shoulder with a thick finger, and she stumbles back, more startled than hurt. “Hulk know what Spider did.” He rises, folds his free arm back around his charge. “Hulk know what ‘Vengers did. Tin Man _hurt_ by Avengers―Hulk _keep safe_.”

 

No one asks how he knows; it was Bruce’s voice that rang through the phone, not Tony’s. Tony must have said something before then, and the Hulk had picked up on the rest.

 

Steve takes a step forward and hopes with everything he has that he isn’t fucking up―Tony’s _life_ ―again. “We know―I know that I haven’t done right by Tony”―he thinks about that day in Siberia, the pain still thundering in his chest a year later as Tony sung a song for the world to hear―”but this isn’t a time where we get to choose sides. Hulk, he needs _help_.”

 

“Friend Hulk,” Thor says, “every moment we waste here is a moment less that Stark doesn’t have.”

 

“Hulk with Tin Man,” Hulk insists.

 

“Of course,” Thor easily agrees. “Tony will find help in the heart of the city.” He points with his hammer, northward. “Allow me to take you there.” He isn’t asking.

 

Hulk huffs, annoyed, but he doesn’t hesitate in extending his hand towards the demigod. Thor grips his hand, nods at the rest of the Avengers in assurance.

 

Steve nods back. “We’ll meet you there.”

 

Thor and Hulk, along with their precious cargo, take off into the sky.

* * *

 

They all come together back  in the same lab Princess Shuri had been trying―unsuccessfully―to separate the Vision from the Mind Stone. It’s been less than half a day, yet it feels like forever ago.

 

At some point, Thor had taken Tony from the Hulk’s arms into his own, so it is Thor that lays the fallen Avenger onto the metal slab, almost reverent in his carefulness. The demigod’s eyes are troubled.

 

“Is there a healer―a medic around here who can fix him,” he asks tonelessly to the room at large.

 

“We don’t know who’s left,” Steve says, which Rhodey follows up with, “Princess Shuri, she went down with some injuries. She hasn’t woken up yet.”

 

Natasha turns Hulk. “Big Guy, we really need Bruce right now.”

 

Hulk snarls at her, but, this time, it is almost playful. “Punny Banner stupid,” he says. “Worry too much.”

 

And, sure enough, Bruce comes down from the transformation freaking out. “What―what just happened. Did I kill anyone? Oh, my god, is that Tony?”

 

He rests his palm on Tony’s neck and startles like a wild animal. “Holy _shit_ , that’s a hell of a fever.” His eyes, glowing radioactive green, glare at the Avengers just standing around. “Are you guys _seriously_ ―This isn’t the time the time to _dawdle_. I need IV lines, saline, Tylenol―hell, I need to take a blood culture―and, _fuck_ , he’s bleeding. Where is he―oh, god, okay, that’s really bad. That’s really, really bad.”

 

The stab wound is thin and long, clean at the edges like it’s been done with something laser-sharp. There are metal particles― _nanotech_ , he recalls Tony saying―in and around the wound. It’s staunched most of the bleeding, but it sure as hell didn’t stop an infection from settling in. It looks to be in the early stages, red and inflamed and sweltering off heat, though he’s willing to bet Tony is as dehydrated as a desert and this specific infection is being led by some superbug from some unknown corner of the universe―and that’s without even taking into consideration all of the blood Tony has lost.

 

“―get his fever down, _stat_ ,” he finishes rattling off, and every Avenger is off like a shot.

 

Bruce presses his palm over Tony’s forehead, willing the man to keep fighting. “Don’t give up on me now, Tony. Don’t give up on me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Amanda (nor Clint, for that matter) was not supposed to be in this part of the series, but she, like Clint, sort of wrote herself in LOL
> 
> This was supposed to be a bit longer, but I've decided to split some stuff up for the next part of the series. I hope it still lives up to expectations. :)

* * *

 

They almost lose him. Tony’s fever had climbed so high he started seizing, twitching and rattling so hard his wound had been gushing blood. It took both Thor and Steve to properly hold him down.

 

And, like proper Tony fashion, the man had come to in the middle of the impromptu surgery, Bruce’s fingers and instruments digging deep into skin to suture closed the last of it.

 

“‘Uce…” Tony breathes; his eyes are glassy and fever-bright. He’s on his right side, his left arm being held up over his torso by a scrubbed-down Rhodey. “D’t’urts.”

 

Bruce looks up, startled, but he’s careful to keep his hands steady. “Sorry,” he says, contrite.

 

“Hey, no, man, you keep doing what you’re doing. Tony and I’ll just to keep busy meantime,” Rhodey says, like it’s that simple. “He’s almost done, all right?” he tells Tony, running his free hand through sweaty locks. Tony leans into the touch with a pained grunt. “Almost done, T.”

 

“N’member wh’enned,” he mumbles.

 

Rhodey tries for a smile, but it falls flat. He doesn’t think he can smile for Tony just yet―not with the memory of Tony flatlining still starkly fresh in his mind. “Yeah, you gonna have to try your words again, Tones. Not even my Tony-to-English dictionary could translate that.”

 

Tony huffs and closes his eyes. His brows are furrowed into a deep vee, a muscle in his cheek twitching with every other movement Bruce makes. “Wha’enned,” he tries again. “Nu’zuppo be’ere.”

 

“You crash landed on a ship. You were―you were just lying there, on the floor.” He doesn’t say, _I thought you were dead._ “What’s the last thing you remember?”

 

His brows burrow deeper, and then his eyelids are blinking open and closed with recalled memory. “ _Peter_ ,” he breathes, the word startlingly clear. He stares up at Rhodey, then, and his eyes almost immediately begin to cloud over with gathering tears.

 

“ _Whoa_ , hey,” Rhodey rushes to soothe, rubbing at Tony’s temple with a circling thumb. “No freaking out on me, okay? You really need to keep still.”

 

Tony shakes his head, adamant.

 

Bruce goes taut with tension. “Tony, I know this is really hard for you right now, but I need you to _stay still_ .”   


The cracking mewl that incites deep from Tony’s throat yanks at their heartstrings. “ _No_ ,” he cries, fever-hazed. “ _Rhodes_ , ‘fought Th’nos, w’ad a _plan_ . Nly’verse w’re f’ck ‘im u’. Bu’ _Pete’s dead_.”

 

Over Tony’s head, Bruce is shooting Rhodey a flummoxed expression. _What the hell is he going on about?_ he mouths.

 

Rhodey jerks his head in a brief _Not now_ motion. “You think you played it right?” he asks Tony.

 

Tony groans, both in pain and too overwhelmed to sort through the rattle of his mind. “Don’ know,” he mutters. “S’no’ m’play.”

 

“But it’s the only way?” Rhodey prods. He cards his fingers again through the increasingly wetter strands of hair, trying, in whatever small way he can, to keep Tony’s mind off of the massive pain he must be in. “Who called the shots?”

 

“ _Strange_ ,” Tony says, strained. His breath, rapid, is fogging up the mask over his face. “C’ll’me doucheb’g. N’e _winked_ a’me. ‘Uce’z there.”

 

Rhodey doesn’t question the logic of those trains of thoughts, but he raises a brow expectantly at Bruce. “Doctor?”

 

“Uhh,” Bruce stutters. His hands don’t stop working seamlessly, pulling hair-thing strings taut with precise movements. “I’d like to say I could vouch for the guy, but I met him the same day Tony did.”

 

"Z’kay,” Tony says, blinking with haziness.  “Du’z good. Knows wha’z doing.”

 

“Last set of stitches, okay?” Bruce replies in turn. Tony jumps, ever so slightly, every time he pulls a stitch, but there’s nothing more he can do for the pain.

 

Tony doesn’t reply.

 

Bruce’s eyes lose their focus from their work, flitting over briefly to Rhodes and then to the monitors. Neither have changed. “Tell me he passed out.”

 

“Yeah,” Rhodes says, like there’s something caught in his throat. “Yeah, he did.”

 

Bruce breathes easier. “Thank god. He scared the shit out of me, waking up the way he did.”

 

“Yeah,” Rhodes says again.

 

Bruce looks up again, but he’s still not familiar enough with the man to understand what that blank expression means. “Rhodes?”

 

Rhodey blinks, and the haze falls from his eyes. “Yeah―yeah, sorry. I’m just…” He trails off, unable to put to words what seeing Tony like this has done to his heart.

 

Bruce seems to get it, finally. “I―Sorry, I know this is probably no one’s scene.”

 

Rhodey shakes his head. He’s careful to keep his hands, still bracing Tony’s body, his arm, steady and as still as possible. “Don’t sweat it. I’ve seen worse,” he lies.

 

Bruce’s lips twist wryly. Tony’s life is at stake, but the Other Guy still refused to let anyone but Rhodes near the man in question. There was no convincing and zero compromise. He’s only grateful that Rhodes, after a life spent at Tony’s side, knows just enough about the medical field to be a help rather than a burden―that, and it’s helpful that at least one of the two of them can keep their cool in the face of their friend’s plight.

 

He tightens the last of the stitches and snips off the thread with an air of finality. “It’s done.”

 

Rhodey slowly lowers Tony’s arm back onto the table. _He’s okay_ , he doesn’t ask. He knows Tony won’t be―not for a long while. He runs a gloved hand through sweaty, unruly dark locks, massages his fingers into the scalp.

 

Tony sighs, heavy and warm into his mask. The pained frown over his visage slowly disappears as he falls deeper into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 _He’ll be okay,_ Bruce says, and Steve falls to his knees.

 

* * *

 

“Need a hand up?” Clint Barton asks but doesn’t offer said proffered hand. Instead, he stands with a bundle of presents in his arms, a petite, elderly woman at his back staring at Thor with something akin to surprise.

 

Thor supposes he makes an alarming figure, slumped as he is on the floor. But this has become his post now, the only thing that has brought purpose to him for the last few weeks. He will guard these doors―the man inside―till he breathes his last breath.

 

He twirls his ax upon the floor, turning the Stormbreaker by the end of her handle. “It is good to see you, my friend.” He doesn’t move.

 

“Yeah,” Clint says, as if the fact that Thor is sitting on the floor like a loyal guard dog makes that debatable. He gestures behind himself, at the woman, as well as he can, what with the entourage of gifts he brings. “This is Amanda Strong―Armstrong, whatever.”

 

Thor nods his head. “A pleasure, Lady Strong. You’ll forgive me if I don’t offer a more proper greeting.”

 

“That’s―all right,” the woman replies. The lilt of her tongue, different as it to what he has accustomed to hearing, is almost surprising. “I’m here to see my son.”

 

Thor frowns. He peers up at Barton, and his stare makes no mistake as to which of the two will hold the upperhand in battle. “What is this jest?”

 

Clint barely withholds the roll of his eyes. “It’s not a joke. This is really his mom. Biological mom. Tony’s adopted.” He wriggles his arms. “Also, this shit is heavier than it looks.”

 

Thor takes that moment to stand. “Allow me, then,” he asks and takes the gifts from Barton’s arms into one of his own. He reaches for the door’s handle and pulls it somewhat ajar, bracing an arm against the door’s edge.

 

“Yeah, sure, go ahead and take my stuff,” Clint mutters under his breath as he passes under Thor’s thick arm and through the doors. “It’s not a problem; thanks for the help.”

 

Amanda passes under the demigod’s arm, as well, biting into her lower lip to hold in her snort of laughter.

 

Thor’s eyes flit across the surroundings, observing for intruders, before he takes Stormbreaker and leaves her, guarding, before the set of the double doors. _Keep watch_ , he commands and feels her pleased hum in reply.

 

He closes the door.

 

“―do look like shit, Shellhead. What the hell did you do?”

 

His ward―Tony―is almost transparent in his paleness, yet the man finds strength enough to smile at his visitors. “It’s good to see you, too, Barton,” Tony manages, though his voice is weak and almost raspy. He’s sitting up today, resting over a mound of pillows, with the covers pulled up mid-chest, doing nothing to obscure the swab of thick bandages wrapped over most of his torso. “And I see you brought me a present,” he continues, after he tilts his head slightly to look over Barton’s frame.

 

Thor hefts the gifts in his arm, but understands Tony’s meaning when the woman comes forth in the next moment.

 

“My boy,” the woman breathes, and it is obvious to everyone in the room that her voice has become thick with tears. She’s careful with all of the lines running from Tony’s body as she takes her place besides Tony on the large bed. Carefully, with reverence, she cradles one of Tony’s hands in one of hers, and it is only because of this that Thor does not haul her away. “I thought you were dead.”

 

Tony’s smile is almost giddy. “Hi, mom.”

 

“Hi,” she replies with a wobbly smile of her own. “I met Pepper before―well, _before_. She’s quite the lad.”

 

Tony loses his smile. “I know,” he says, simply. “Did she tell you about Peter?”

 

“She did. And I am so proud of you.”

 

Tony frowns, displeased. “Mom, don’t―I’m not―”

 

“Hush, you,” she gentles. “You did everything right and everything you could. All you need to do now is rest and gain your strength back. You leave the plummeting of that Thanos son of a bitch to me, you hear?”

 

Clint’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, I _like_ you.”

 

Tony draws a fake pout to his lips. “Get in line,” he rasps. “M’mom’z awesome.”

 

“How tired are you?” Clint asks instead.

 

Tony glares.

 

“What? It’s a fair question. I’ll say it again: You do look like shit.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Thor, the latter of which has been standing like a sentry by the room’s entry with the pile of gifts still in his arm. “I’ve got some stuff from my kids that they wanted me to bring for you. It was a pain in the ass to hall all the way from Iowa, but it can wait if you’re not up for it.”

 

“I’m fine,” Tony is in the middle of lying when there’s a couple of knocks on the door.

 

Thor immediately tenses and briskly stomps across the room to dump the presents back on Clint’s arms.

 

“Whoa, hey―”

 

“Hold this,” Thor says, belatedly.

 

Tony sighs dramatically. “Here we go again.”

 

The knocks come again. “ _Thor_ ,” comes Natasha Romanov’ mildly annoyed voice. “ _I thought we agreed not to leave your ax against the doors again._ ”

 

“Not on my agreement,” Thor denies, almost childishly. “Stormbreaker will allow you passage.”

 

One of the doors opens to allow Natasha in.

 

She’s not alone.

 

“Well,” Amanda says, “if it isn’t Captain America.”

 

Tony immediately knows that tone of voice. “Mom―” he tries to catch her hand as she turns to stand, but she pats it back down over his lap gently.

 

“Tony,” she warns, though her fiercely blue eyes have become fixated on Steve’s figure, “a mother has her duties to her son―to fight the fights that he can’t on his own―and I’ve missed too long of your life, missed too many battles. But this?” she says, her expression thunderous, and now she’s cracking her knuckles into her palm. “This is not a battle I will miss.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Tony voices over the sudden stillness of the room. “Can someone restrain my mother before she breaks her hand on Cap’s jaw?”

 

“No,” Steve interjects, just as Natasha starts making a move, “it’s the least I deserve.”

 

Tony groans, and it comes off more raw than he meant. “Jesus, Steve, we’ve been _over_ this already―”

 

“I know,” Steve soothes, and Tony thinks, secretly, that it really shouldn’t be so soothing. “It’s okay, Tony.”

 

“Uh, guys,” Clint tries to warn―to the echo of a resounding _slap_.

 

“I believe you know what I will say,” Amanda says, her voice dangerously cool. She’s standing right under Steve’s nose, her chin tilted up―and, for all that she’s but a few inches shorter than Tony, she might as well have been twice as large as Steve himself. “I understand mishaps, Captain Rogers―I am intimately familiar with doing wrong to someone who should never be wronged―but I will _not_ stand for it again. Am I perfectly understood?”

 

Steve ducks his head, feeling properly like his Ma has just chastised him for picking a fight again. “Yes, Ma’am.”

 

She nods decisively, an action so akinly similar to Tony it almost startles him. “Good.” She drags him down, then, with a hand at the back of his neck―and _now_ Steve is respectably startled when she plants a kiss on his burning, just-slapped cheek. “Now, you take care of my boy, you hear?”

 

Steve’s cheeks burn infinitely brighter. “I―” _Is he really that obvious, even to a woman he just met five seconds ago?_

 

She pats him consolingly on the chest. “He needs a good man like you in his life.”

 

“Oh, my― _Mom_ ,” Tony protests, raspy and halfway to petulant.

 

Clint snickers. “Hey, see―he’s already good for you. He brought some colour to your cheeks!”

 

“Let the invalid be, Clint,” Natasha says with a disinterested air that says she is really, very much _not_ disinterested. “He’ll bust a stitch again, and then we’ll have the Hulk making a scene at the Wakandan royal palace. _Again_.”

 

“Yeah, yeah―hey, Shellhead, you still up for some presents?”

 

“Oh, hey, we’re just in time, then,” Natasha says, slapping at Steve’s arm.

 

Steve rubs at his arm. Tongue-tied, he can’t find words yet.

 

“Still good,” Tony affirms―less of a lie now that his own mother has successfully managed to up his adrenaline for the foreseeable future. He pats the abandoned space next to him. “Mom, please, can you―please leave Steve alone and come sit here before you give me a heart attack.”

 

Amanda rolls her eyes, but she obliges, nonetheless. “So dramatic, Tony. I’ve no idea where you get that from.”

 

Tony smiles at her. “Yeah, I can’t tell where it came from, either. Definitely has nothing to do with the woman who just slapped Captain America across the face.”

 

“I’ve no idea what you could possibly mean.” She takes his hand once more, careful as ever, and presses her lips to his knuckles. “You just sit tight, all right? You look like a ghost.”

 

Tony sighs dramatically. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Did the bad tan I got on Titan ruin my good looks?”

 

“Never, my friend,” Thor soothes.

 

“And this is why Thor is my favourite.”

 

Thor’s somber look breaks with a grin. “Though, you are looking a little―”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake―”

 

Rhodey and Bruce choose that moment to enter the room. “We late?” Rhodey asks.

 

“Just in time,” Clint replies. He’s dropping each present onto a chair sitting by the bed in a neat, pyramid pile. “You got snacks?”

 

Rhodey hefts a package. “One of the Doras dropped it off―I’m still surprised they don’t have jello around here.”

 

Tony perks up, making grabby hands. “Honeybear, you brought me jello?”

 

“Only because you have the worst puppy eyes,” Bruce replies. “The Other Guy was threatening to come out if we didn’t get you some _pronto_.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “I love you, too, green bean.”

 

Bruce comes over, checking over wires and tubes and monitors, as Thor leans closer into Rhodey’s space with a hopeful look to steal some of the sweets. “Has he moved?” he asks the room at large. “I’d really rather not have to stitch you up again.”

 

Tony slumps deeper into his pile of pillows with an affronted look. “It happens _one time_ ,” he tells, very seriously to his mother.

 

She hums. “I do believe once is more than enough.”

 

Tony stares at her for a beat. “You are cruel.” It comes out more moan-y than he’d like, what with his weak voice, but it prompts Steve to drift to the other side of the bed.

 

Steve sits carefully, feeling overly clumsy and large as he tries not to snag on something important―much less jostle Tony as he settles down. He presses his palm to Tony forehead and tries not to feel pleased when Tony allows the contact with barely a huff. He drags that hand down, feeling at clammy cheeks, and then closer down to feel at Tony’s pulse. “You feel a little warm, still,” he concludes. He tries not to squirm, uncomfortable, when he notices all of the eyes of the room’s occupants are staring in his direction. “Want some water? Ice chips?”

 

Tony’s eyes are incredibly soft. “M’good, Cap. Just feeling the time of day.”

 

That settles worry in his stomach. “You haven’t slept yet?”

 

Tony huffs, clearly trying to retain an eye roll. “I’ll sleep later, in a bit. I want presents, and I want jello. I’m a man of simple needs.”

 

Steve concedes to that.

 

“I was mildly joking when I said he needs a man like you―clearly, I’ve seen nothing yet,” Amanda interrupts. The rest of the room, for the most part, have gone back to not-staring, but she makes no pretense otherwise. She’s openly staring at the pair with surprised, startling blue eyes.

 

A dash of pink make a valiant return to Tony’s cheeks. He covers his eyes with his palms. “God,” he bewails, “it’s like you’re making up for all of the years you couldn’t embarrass me when I was a kid.”

 

Bruce takes the opportunity to lean over Steve and snatch up the IV-connected hand. He injects some ccs into the line, much to Tony’s displeasure. “You know, when you do that, you sound like a cat,” he informs the man.

 

Tony grumbles, massaging his arm. “Yeah, well, at least, _they_ ’ll love me here.”

 

“Cats are not synonymous with panthers, Tony.”

 

“Bite me, Darwin.”

 

“Be nice to the good doctor, Tony,” Rhodey chides. He settles next to Steve with the package of jellos on his lap. “Or I’ll withhold privileges.”

 

“It’s like you love me,” Tony scoffs.

 

“You bet I do.”

 

“Hey, Tony,” Clint says, “you know who really loves you?” He proffers the first present and watches with pride and something _soft_ that he refuses to name when Tony picks it up like a fragile, precious jewel from his lap after Clint settles it there.

 

“Budge over, Miss Strong,” Natasha says, as casual as you please, having been done with rummaging through the mound of presents like a curious cat. “I need to record his face for later use as blackmail.”

 

Then, only as Thor relents his post as door sentry to lay sideways over the small space allowed at the foot of the bed, something in Steve finally eases. They may be missing half their numbers, but their little family still manages to be complete.

 

Tony is home, safe and mending―nothing else will matter for a little while longer.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading _For a Life_! It really was a joy to write this, and I really couldn't have expected all of the love I received for this! Thank you to everyone for all of your support!
> 
> Also, curious to know what Amanda means about being proud about Peter? Check out the upcoming part of the series, where we regress a bit back in time! It's already in the writing process, so, hopefully, it will be posted soon!
> 
> Also, another part of the _Made of Iron_ series will be dedicated to what happened in between the surgery and Clint and Amanda arriving at Wakanda. It'll be soaked with feels, so come prepared! (This is, also, already in the writing process and will be, hopefully, posted soon enough.)
> 
> Till then, dear readers!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://that616marvel.tumblr.com)!


End file.
